Disclaimer: I own naught but my soul…and that of a few others.

Chapter 12

Tara sighed as she wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead, her exhaustion increasing with every passing minute. Using magic for such an elongated period of time was definitely not healthy; especially when combined with that horrible odor. The witch wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to hold out. Almost forty minutes had passed, and still she wasn't done searching the trash. The poor college student was burning out.

"Seven!" The blonde released yet another heavyweight bag back into the dumpster's putrid, plastic depths, "Willow is going to be in so much trouble once I turn her back!" The witch grumbled to herself. However, her attention, which, up until then, had been focused on the uncleanly task at hand, was quickly grabbed by the loud rumble of a black, four-door sedan, which proceeded to drive right past her.

The young woman watched with curiosity as a lady in a navy-blue suit left the vehicle, carrying with her a briefcase and an air of determination. She vaguely reminded Tara of a faint memory from when she was a little girl-but what was it?

The witch thought on it for a minute longer. Who could possibly have come at such a ridiculous hour? And a business woman? That didn't seem right…

Shrugging, since this strange late-night entrance had nothing whatsoever to do with her, Tara returned to her current occupation, dismissing the occurrence from her mind.

"Mr. Burns?" A middle-aged woman inquired.

"Yeah; that's me." Cale smiled forlornly, like the whole situation pained him.

"I'm Arlene; from social services." She shook the college student's hand firmly, sizing him up with hard, steel eyes, "Is that her?" The hard woman pointed a sharp, manicured index finger at the little ball of auburn hair and tear-soaked pajamas curled up by the dormitories' glass double-doors.

Cale nodded, moving to speak, but a quick flick of Arlene's wrist in his general direction silenced the boy. Willow, on the other hand, was not so easy to quiet down. Cautiously edging nearer to the small child, the graying dame kneeled down to her level, icy eyes magnified by square, horn-rimmed lenses.

"Danielle?" She questioned; though it was more of a statement than anything else. The little girl remained in the fetal position, not even bothering to glance at the wiry frame before her, merely offering a timid, "P-please go a-away."

The phrase, barely whispered, did not go unheard.

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss Maclay." The woman's voice matched her unbecoming, angular features; sharp and unpleasant, "It seems that your mother has been performing her maternal duties in a less-than-adequate fashion. Clearly, Danielle, you must understand that action needs to be taken."

Understand? How could young Willow possibly comprehend that justice called for her mother, who had never done anything remotely blameworthy, to be taken from her for abuses which never occurred? The fact is, she could not. However, being of somewhat heightened intelligence for a girl of her age, the child was able to understand what Cale was planning. Thus, her only goal at the current juncture was to thwart the villainous college student, and somehow make the wizened social worker before her believe that her mother was naught but the pinnacle of human angelic-ness. But just how to go about this? That was the difficult part.

"Ok," The blonde witch strained to keep up her morale, "Just fourteen left!"

The poor, desperate young adult struggled not to faint from the dumpster's vile odor. She had initially thought that the more time she had spent in close proximity to the garbage, the more immunity she'd gain to the stench, but, quite obviously, this was not the case.

The trooper wiped a few beads of sweat off her pale brow with her free arm, and did her best to breath through the cotton of her blouse, using it as a sort of makeshift filter. She wasn't sure how much more she could take. Tara loved her little girl just as much as her girlfriend, but she had to question; was it really worth all this hard labor to change Willow back? As a child-as her child, the red-head was not only as loving and loyal as her older self, but also far more considerate to Tara's will. She could be sure that her little, speech-impaired, cherub wouldn't cast unnecessary spells, or hurt her, or leave her…

The college student hung her head, ashamed at her thoughts. Willow was no easier to deal with and no more lovable as a child than as a grown woman; and Tara realized that though a child-version of her lover would be less likely to leave her, or stop feeling affection towards her, nothing could replace the void that the older version left behind, and Willow had the right to return to her former state. After all, where would Tara have been if her own mother hadn't been there to bail her out of numerous magical mishaps?

The witch considered this for a moment. With all the amateur, failed spells she attempted as a child, it was anyone's guess as to what additional punishments her father would have bestowed upon her had he found out. It was only Tara's dear, sweet mother's quick mind that helped her cover up the bulk of her mistakes, so that her father only beat her because she existed, and for what she was, rather than for her actions.

At this instant, something clicked in the young woman's mind, and the twelfth bag of garbage she had been levitating dropped back into the heap of those yet unchecked. She knew who the old woman in the navy suit was. And she wasn't a business woman…or a social worker.